Restlessness
by Kian
Summary: A very short Wufei character study. Very slight mention of slash & het, reference to canon character deaths, angst without comfort.


**Title:** Restlessness  
**Author:** Kian  
**Warnings:** very slight shounen-ai & het, reference to canon character deaths, angst without comfort  
**Pairings/Characters:** 5+M, 5+13  
**Disclaimer:** The anime series Gundam Wing and its characters are copyright to the appropriate creators and companies. Any businesses, logos or characters not belonging to the author are the intellectual property of the appropriate creators and owners. Any of the content (prose, plot, original characters, etc.) that does not fall in the above categories in the intellectual property of the author "Kian" and said intellectual property is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. The individual under the pen name of "Kian" is receiving no profit from the distribution of this story, nor does said author have any intention to receive compensation beyond hopefully some verbal praise.

**Notes:** Wufei's story line has always intrigued me. This was supposed to be about that one scene of him floating around next to Nataku asleep with his arms crossed, but it turned into something else instead.

**Restlessness**

He hated sleeping. It reminded him of weakness, of a life of ignorance to the things happening around him. It was a necessary bodily function, he knew this. But he hated it all the same. It didn't help that sleep brought dreams – memories – that he couldn't escape until he had seen more than he wanted to.

His wife had known, but she had never told him. The elders had kept it from him. The doctor – a distant clansman – had informed him in an offhand manner. He had been perceived as weak, had been passed over for consultation and inclusion by his own family in the mission they were preparing his wife to carry out. His value had been less than hers, so much so that even she had not thought enough of him as a man, a cousin, or as her husband to tell him what her fate was ordained to be.

His sentiments of valor and high ideals had made him weak in their sight, but he could not see that he was wrong. The number of children alone that the elders had sacrificed to their great cause was enough to harden his heart against their judgment. But her…her opinion had always mattered to him. She had only loved him when he fought, only respected him when his blade was unsheathed and gleaming in cold sunlight. Ironically, those were the only times he could truly say he hated himself.

And it was that same calculating, merciless evaluation he saw in the older man's eyes as they dueled; that same callous observation, punctuated by interest and hot delight only when they clashed across scant feet of hardened metal. Everything in him screamed to beat the other man into submission, to make him respect what he scoffed at. It was hate, both of the other man and of himself. It was love, desperate and yearning for approval.

They were both dead now, neither truly buried. They watched him still in the eyes of strangers, in the eyes of his peers and co-workers. That glimmer of something that was held apart from him, that untouchable place inside of the people from whom he did not command respect. It pushed him; drove him to distraction when he let it. His partner called him a "workaholic;" he merely had purpose.

But when he walked through the door of his apartment and found the room cool and dark, he would wonder if he had done enough. He would make himself something to eat, watch the news channels through the weather report, take a shower, browse disinterestedly on the web networks until he could no longer ignore the drooping of his eyelids, the clumsiness of his fingers and the slow drag of his thoughts. Then – and only then – would he approach the bed, like a man circling his enemy.

He had purchased a small bed, meant only for one body, but he could feel the depression on each side of him, the woman who had curled up on his right and the man who lain stretched out on his left. The shudders would start then, trembles that shook his whole frame and he would do his best to tuck the blankets firmly around him until the weight of the dead no longer touched his sides. He would lay there shivering in the dark, eyes locked on the cityscape outside his window and would try to convince himself that tonight, he would not dream. Tonight, he would tell himself, there would be nothing but blackness and silence. And in the early hours of the morning, he would wake, reminded once again why he hated sleeping.


End file.
